The Walls of Grimmauld Place
by Leximaven
Summary: A chilly night in December, someone unexpected turns up on Harry's doorstep. The crumbling walls of a once-noble realm are witness to many strange things that night, and over the following years.
1. Moving On & Mending, Intervention Friday

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any part of the Harry Potter 'verse. The only aspects of this story that are mine are Mrs Radley and the Murany family.

**AN: **The first thing I would like to make clear is _do not expect regular updates. _I'm updating as each chapter is completed, so there will be a wait, and I'm not good at consistently writing, so it will probably be a while. Sorry.  
>Second thing – Draco will enter the story in the next chapter.<br>Thirdly – this story is my baby. I have a lot of plot arcs planned already, and it will hopefully span seven years, story-time. It's going to be kind of big.  
>Fourth – despite the title and summary, the entire thing won't be set in Grimmauld Place. I just thought they sounded good, so…<br>Fifth? I hope you enjoy :)

**TW for mentions of suicide and depression**

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><p><strong>Prologue – Moving On and Mending<strong>

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><p>It was the second of December, seven months to the day since the Final Battle, when Draco Malfoy arrived on his doorstep.<p>

Seven months since the day that Harry Potter, Chosen One and Boy-Who-Lived, became the man who defeated the Dark Lord.

In the weeks that followed people had ignored the work that needed to be done, and let themselves live and grieve for the first time in far too long. At last, though, attention turned to the big clean-up ahead of them.

True to her nature, Hermione was one of the first to consider the work ahead of them; in fact, it was her passionate speeches that prompted the nation to begin the monumental task. She'd been exhausted by the war but was never one to sit idle; after a month spent with her parents in happy reunion, Hermione began refreshing her knowledge of Wizarding Law, and settled in for a full revamp of the Ministry of Magic with Kingsley by her side.  
>Within days, the older and more experienced witches and wizards had given up the pretence of control and she was appointed acting Minister for Magic to give her reform the greatest possible authority.<p>

Ron fully supported his partner, but from a distance; he was proud of Hermione's intellect and drive, but was content to leave the politics to her while he volunteered in the more wands-on work of physical clean-up. In the first months he was the driving force behind the rebuilding of Diagon Alley, although the project was actually spearheaded by Neville.

After his role leading the rebellion at Hogwarts, and having beheaded Nagini (a task which was now understood to be of monumental importance), Neville was something of a national hero himself, but it was the chance to work beside Ron that really inspired the public.

The redhead's next port of call was Hogwarts castle, where Ginny had long been busy rebuilding walls, towers and bridges. However, even without their help the work would've been done quickly; as the site of the Final Battle and the symbol of childhood for so many, the beloved school could never be left in ruins for long.

Whatever his work, Ron was always accompanied by George, for the two men had become almost as inseparable as the twins themselves. With the love of his family, and the support of his brother, George coped with Fred's loss as best he could. Really, though, his strength came from being conscious of a constant smiling presence, waiting patiently for him to live out his years.

Then there was Harry. He was in high demand everywhere now that the real clean-up had begun, and so he flitted around keeping up morale, having not yet learned to say no. He was occasionally asked to help out on the political side of things, standing behind Hermione as she gave important speeches, or sitting by her in dull meetings: he never said much, and redirected all questions to her expertise, constantly reminding the press and politicians that she was the brains of the trio.

Over the weeks of reform and restoration, Harry could be found at various construction sites throughout the country, casting spell after spell to rebuild what was broken; he visited the bedsides of many of the patients of St Mungo's, listening to their stories with a patient ear; he gave interviews to_ The Daily Prophet_ and _The Quibbler_ (though never _Witch Weekly _or Rita Skeeter), and his calming tones were often heard on the Wizarding Wireless all over Britain. He had little choice but to be the symbol his country needed, and so he did his best.

However, there were times when Harry could only be seen haunting the graves of all those he'd loved and lost, or wasn't to be found at all. On these blackest of days, he might be nursing a cup of tea in the unnaturally empty kitchen of the Burrow, kept company by at least one Weasley who had engineered the day off. Most often, though, Harry spent the hours wandering the rooms of number twelve Grimmauld Place, now his home, remembering the time before people started dying.

But now the story threatens to become gloomy. This is a tale of how Harry was not so much mended, but _completed_, so I shall spare you the details of his breaking and piecing together. Only know this: with love, support, time – and of course strong tea – Harry grew to become as happy as he could ever be, for some months at least.

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><p><strong>Chapter One – Intervention Friday<strong>

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><p>Following the Final Battle, Harry had of course been invited to live at the Burrow for "as long as you need dear", and indeed Mrs Weasley had probably expected it. But after life with the Dursley's, and then on the hunt, he'd become accustomed to solitude. The atmosphere of the Weasley's home was too smothering for long-term occupation, especially on those days when he just needed to be allowed to wallow in his grief. So he had been polite but firm as he told Mrs Weasley he would be staying at Grimmauld Place – alone – indefinitely.<p>

Harry held his ground when she threatened to get the intimidating Professor McGonagall onside, insisting that at seventeen he was old enough to be living alone; and besides, the new Headmistress of Hogwarts had little influence on him now he wouldn't be returning to school. He held firm when she cited the threat of elusive Death Eaters and their sympathisers, reminding her that as Order of the Phoenix Headquarters, Grimmauld Place was warded with every spell known to wizard-kind – and several known only to Dumbledore. She finally relented when Harry agreed to come "home" for Sunday dinners.

And so Harry settled in, and began to remodel the old place.

He was glad to be alone in the house where Sirius had spent much of his 'freedom', and his last happy Christmas. He needed space to think about everything – about the war, and the death, and what he was going to do with his life. There was a time when he'd wanted to be an Auror, but then began the year-long search for horcruxes… In that time he'd been attacked, captured, and betrayed; he'd been forced to listen as Hermione was tortured, buried his most loyal friend, and lost so many in the Final Battle, as well as dying himself. He'd had enough of fighting and darkness to last him a lifetime.

Sometimes the solitude of the old house became too much for him, and he threatened to sink into depression – times when he'd glance up, sure he'd heard his godfather laughing, or felt Dumbledore's twinkling gaze on him; when he'd catch a glimpse of pink out the corner of his eye and turn, expecting to find Tonks grinning back at him, but greeted only with an empty room; times when he could feel Lupin's calming hand on his shoulder; when he'd hear the mind-muddling banter of Fred and George, who was still struggling with the death of his twin.

When this happened, and sometimes when it didn't, he could expect Hermione and Ron to drop in at a moment's notice – sometimes together, sometimes alone.  
>Luna, too, visited, though she spent most of her days rushing to finish the artwork on her new home's walls, or collecting unusual specimens to bring Xenophilius in St. Mungo's. He was still rather shaken by the events of the war, but they were overjoyed to hear he would be discharged soon.<br>Neville also stopped by, joined by Ginny when she could be dragged away from school; but they were caught up in their new relationship (which had surprised Harry and Ron – but never Hermione – and disappointed girls nation-wide), and while the love-struck Neville or the couple themselves were always welcome, they could sometimes get a little wearing.  
>Oftentimes the various Weasley visitors would drag George out of his joke shop to visit with them, making sure he never felt alone. Days with George were a trial; it seemed whenever he returned to some semblance of his former self, he would inevitably pause to let Fred deliver the punchline, and they would be back where they started, each of them nursing broken hearts.<p>

Harry was never truly alone; he had loyal friends who looked out for him and an overly affectionate surrogate family. There was always somewhere he could go, someone he could spend time with; and if there wasn't, well then, someone would _make_ time. But some days it just didn't seem enough.

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><p><strong>Friday: 27<strong>**th**** November, 1998**

Harry puttered over to the kettle, filling it with water, and pulling a generous selection from the biscuit tin. Pudding; he wanted pudding. There was a fresh sticky-date in the freezer – he should really leave it for Saturday, when maybe some friends would drop by, but… One little slice wouldn't hurt, right? He put that in the oven too.

Today was one of the good ones. He'd been up in Scotland, at the opening of a memorial to some of the local war victims, and had managed to drop in and visit Ginny for an hour or so, before her next class began. He'd enjoyed the time catching up with his ex, who against all society's expectations remained one of his closest friends. He hadn't seen her in person for weeks, and there were some things that just couldn't be shared over parchment. He'd had afternoon tea with Hagrid, insistently turning down every offer of rock-cakes, being all the half-giant had left in his cupboards. Harry had even managed to get under McGonagall's feet for half an hour, chatting about various mutual friends until she threw him out of her school. Luckily, he relocated Ginny in time for her to escort him off the grounds.

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><p>Harry quietly enjoyed the scenery and the fresh mountain air, while Ginny rambled on about the latest Charms assignment, and pretended not to notice where he was leading her. She fell silent as they neared the monuments – two great walls. The larger wall bore the names of all Hogwarts' present and future students who went missing during the war – those who had been confirmed dead, and still more whose fate remained unknown. Harry stepped up to the smaller slab of marble – carved into its surface were the names of the more than fifty victims of the Battle of Hogwarts.<p>

Ginny hung back, allowing Harry to greet their friends privately. He brushed his fingers over the names he recognized, muttering a quiet, "Hey." He stood still for a moment, hand lingering on the cool surface, eyes closed. He listened to the lapping of small waves on the lake shore, felt the breath in his lungs and the wind on his face. They were gone, but he was alive – and it was ok; they would have wanted him to live.

The pair moved on, the conversation picking up its thread as they left the immovable stone behind. As they skirted the edge of the lake, they passed another pair braving the weather – some Hufflepuff girls the year below Ginny, who nodded at them companionably. "Hello Georgia, Charlie."

"Hi Ginny!" They glanced hopefully at Harry, who fidgeted uncomfortably, nodding at the pair with a strained smile that didn't reach his eyes. Ginny, watching, decided not to introduce them.

"It's freezing, what are you two doing out here?"

"We could ask you the same thing!"

Ginny frowned because no, they couldn't. She and Harry were heading directly for the school gates, whereas the other two had been wandering 'aimlessly', obviously altering their path to meet the hero 'coincidentally'.

"I was just walking Harry out; he had some business up here and decided to drop in."

Harry shifted awkwardly as the two, seemingly very nice girls, seized the opportunity to speak to him.

"Of course! It's great that you could drop in and see your _friend_, you must be very busy. Didn't you open, like, three hospital wings last month, and reopen an alley?

He blushed. "Yeah, well… They needed a few hundred more rooms to cope with all the inpatients, it was the least I could do. And the alley was all Neville's hard work, really, just ask Ginny!" _Please, please, just ask Ginny._

The three turned to her, the girls politely, Harry beseechingly.

"Oh yeah, Neville coordinated the whole thing, and kept up the volunteer numbers. He even designed a little square with some of the more harmless wizarding plants, and a little fountain, and…" She trailed off, the earnest nods a shaky cover for the lingering glances. "But you don't want to hear about this. What are you both up to this weekend? Harry was just saying he might try and come up on Sunday, spend the day revisiting some favourite walks while the weather's still..."

She didn't even need to finish the sentence, the 'Puff's not caring enough to question why anyone would want to spend time outside in this bitter cold. They turned back to Harry, full of smiles and suggestions. The boy's frantic eyes were toned down with an ease which comes from being too long in the spotlight, and his confusion was evident only in the quick glances he sent Ginny's way while he fielded questions.

She refused to come to his assistance, though, choosing instead to watch the interaction with narrowed eyes; the girls probably assumed she was getting possessive of her ex-boyfriend, but Harry knew what that look meant: she was thinking. Nothing pleasant ever followed Ginny Weasley thinking.

The conversation ended naturally only when Georgia suddenly remembered she was meant to meet her boyfriend more than twenty minutes ago. When she said 'boyfriend', Harry should know it was just more of a high school fling, really. He was her age, after all, and she was really only interested in _older _men.

He told her – rather awkwardly – that it was good to know, and they parted on apparently rather friendly terms.

He turned to Ginny accusingly.

"What on earth was that? I am not equipped to deal with… with flighty, _flirty_ school-girls; and I never planned on coming up Sunday! What the hell are you playing at, Weasley?"

The redhead just giggled, any disquieting concentration wiped from her face. "Watch it, _Potter. _You're beginning to sound just like Malfoy. You need to loosen up! Come on."

And with that, she looped her arm through his once more, and dragged him off towards the gates.

* * *

><p>Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he might just be naturally paranoid, but he found blaming the war a far easier way to reconcile his conscience.<p>

As he apparated a little further down the path, rather than to Grimmauld Place as Ginny expected him to, he told himself suspicion was what kept him alive all these years.

As he hid behind the nearest tree, he reminded himself that he was usually right about these things. After all, think of Malfoy during Sixth Year! He really _had _been up to something. Even if he wasn't the heir of Slytherin, and Professor Snape hadn't been trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone…

As his eyes picked out Ginny, half way up the path, he stopped dwelling on the past altogether – _that _had never done him any good during the war, after all.

But – that was strange. It looked like her steps were taking her to the Owlery, rather than the Entrance Hall…

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><p>As Harry waited for the kettle to boil he pondered what the look might be about, and who she would have decided to contact. Then he wondered if he was just going insane, and was, in fact, a horrible person for doubting his friend.<p>

His thoughts were interrupted as the oven timer binged; he'd just pulled out the hot dish and was carrying it to a clear space of bench when the fire suddenly flared green – he jumped – the pudding went flying through the air – Seeker reflexes were no good when he'd left his wand by the stove – Ron stepped out of the flames.

He'd never seen the other man's hand move that fast. Whether he'd built quick reflexes from his work at George's shop, or was spurned into action by the thought of food going to waste, Harry didn't know – but the next instant the dish was cooling at the long table, and Ron was exclaiming, "Stickydate! Thanks, man," and conjuring a spoon.

Before Harry could leap to his dessert's defence, the fire flashed green again and Hermione stepped into the room, brushing the soot off her clothes. "Really Ronald, you've just eaten! Oh hello Harry, sorry to just drop in on you like this, but—Ron!"

"Wha-?"

"For goodness sake, swallow before you speak. Can't you at least get a bowl or something?"

Harry sighed as the argument continued. Despite _them_ being the ones to enter _his_ house, anyone would think he was the one interrupting. It was best to just wait for the squabble to finish; they'd acknowledge him when they were ready. He refilled the kettle.

Then the fire turned green again, and what was this, let's all drop in on Harry night? Merlin…

Then Luna appeared in the flames, Luna who he hadn't seen for over a week, and all irritation was wiped from his mind.

"Luna! Hi! You're in perfect time; I was just boiling the kettle. How's Xenophilius?"

She gave him an airy smile, pulling the three's usual cups from the cupboard.

"Hello Harry. Daddy's feeling much better, the Healer said he should be home in a few days. Though he won't be calm enough for travel for a while yet," she added, frowning, "so we'll have to postpone the expedition for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack 'til next Winter. They hibernate during the Summer you see, and Daddy says we must be very careful not to disturb them or they might become violent."

Her pale eyes widened in either awe or fear, and Harry grinned, restraining himself from squeezing the adorable out of her.

The nonsense aspect of this speech managed to finally dragged Hermione's attention away from her mannerless boyfriend; she threw up her hands in exasperation at the world around her and the people she'd roped herself to. "Hibernate in Summer? Whatever are you—?"

Harry winked at the blonde, who winked back; she'd quickly discovered that mentioning any of the Quibbler's more controversial creatures was sure to rile Hermione up. They all frequently delighted in driving her mad, but Luna was the second most successful, following Ron.

"Oh, never mind all that Luna, don't you remember what we're here for?"

"Wait, what?" Harry looked between the two, confused.

"Of course, Hermione," she replied patiently. "Now why don't you leave Ron to his stolen pudding and explain all this to Harry?"

The thief in question began to laugh at Luna's ability to keep his errant girlfriend on track, the sound bringing her wrath down on him once more. Ron, hardly bothered by this after all the years, swallowed down a huge mouthful and turned to Harry with a sticky grin. "Harry, mate – this is an intervention!"

Hermione yelled in frustration – she didn't know how things always managed to get out of her control like this – and stomped over to help Luna with the tea things. Let the boys have their childish moment.

Harry gracefully surrendered his place at the counter, and wandered over to join Ron at the table with a spoon of his own – and bowls.

"An intervention," he mused. "On a Friday?" Ron snorted. "No, it's just you guys usually take me to hand on Sundays – you know how mopey I get."

The Weasley rolled his eyes, apparently finding this to be rather an understatement.

"Harry, why didn't you tell us you were going to Scotland today?" Hermione demanded. "We would have gone with you!"

He shrugged. "It just came up. Besides, weren't you busy reforming something or… Oh!" His eyes went wide as several things clicked into place.

Luna smiled, "Yes Harry – we've all heard from Ginny. Georgia and Charlie are really very nice girls you know. They stopped whispering about me when Ginny threatened them in Fourth Year, and whenever they stole my things they gave them right back if I asked."

Harry frowned, but Hermione beat him to it. "None of that makes them nice people, Luna. They shouldn't ever have been cruel to you just because you believed different things to them. In fact, neither should we, but we're passed that now. Anyway, I'm sure Harry would never wish to be with someone who treated his friends badly, isn't that right?"

He nodded definitively. "Exactly. If they have a problem with you, I have a problem with—Wait. What's this about 'being with someone'? Who says I was ever going to 'be' with them? Who says I have to _be_ with _anyone?_"

Luna gave him a look that seemed to say, 'Bless – the poor boy's oblivious!' Coming from her, he tried not to be insulted.  
>Ron maintained his single-minded focus on the pudding.<br>Hermione turned to face the Hero dead on.

"Harry. The war ended more than six months ago. It's been just as long since you and Ginny decided to stay friends. In that time, she and Neville have gone through the awkward flirting stage, the awkward dating stage, and are now mostly embedded in the puppy love stage, with occasional bouts of Married Couple. You, on the other hand, have opened multiple buildings, organizations and roads, developed a relationship with your godson, encouraged your friends to fulfil their dreams, and _dated no one._"

Harry wasn't sure he liked where this intervention was going. He blinked at her. "Your point?"

Hermione sighed. "You've done really well under all this pressure; we're all very proud of you – but we don't think this is healthy. You can't keep hiding your feeling of worthlessness behind a huge list of accomplishments."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Luna silenced him with her penetrating gaze. Of course Ginny would have sent her – somehow Luna _knew _things.

"You're using your Hero complex to compensate for your loneliness, and cover up your life-long fear of never being good enough."

Harry winced, but he didn't try to deny it. When Luna spoke… well, then any argument was over.

The four sat there for a moment, tea going cold before them. Harry was steadily avoiding everyone's gaze; Hermione was trying to catch his eye, and resist the urge to hug him; Luna was smiling beatifically, positive that everything would be alright, though her eyes were tinged with sadness; Ron was staring thoughtfully into his bowl…

He lifted his head. "Sorry, mate, but she's right. You're miserable and alone, but you're holed up here all the time. How are you ever going to meet anyone?"

The brunette frowned. "I meet people!"

Ron waved him quiet. "Yes, we know, during your rounds of St. Mungo's. And it's all very sweet and all that, but the only reason you're there is because of the war. You're easing your guilty conscience, not getting on with your life."

"What, so… so I should just abandon them all? Never go back? Some people there have _no one_. Like Mrs Radley – her husband and children were killed because they had Muggle blood; she was tortured for 'asssisting a filthy Mudblood to steal the magical property of Wizarding England'. The healers told her she'll never walk again, and the spasms will never go away. Before I started to visit her, she was on _suicide watch. _I'm the only one she has now."

The three of them flinched at his words, and Hermione timidly tried to interrupt. "We're not saying you should _stop, _just—"

"No, you just want me to 'live for the future'," he sneered. "Well there are people who can't, and I won't just leave them behind like the rest of our world has. What about Daniel Murany? Who'll be there to offer him support as his twin ignores his presence every day – ignores everything! Certainly not his idiot family, they fled to America as soon as they saw her, _getting on with their lives._ As for Julian, no one even knows what happened to her. She went missing, and when they found her, she wouldn't speak or move; she was practically catatonic! How is _she _supposed to move on, hmm? The healers say there's no internal injuries, nothing they can do. She's lost somewhere inside herself. If I go, who will make sure Daniel remembers to eat and sleep while he tries to get his sister back?"

He stared down at them, breathing hard, unable to remember when he stood and kicked his chair to the floor.

Kreacher, disturbed by the noise, came out of his room and surveyed the scene before him. He frowned at the visitors as he moved to Harry's side, picking up the chair and pressing him into it, warming up the mug of tea and pushing it towards him.

"Don't you be upsetting the Master, now, or Kreacher will have to ask you to leave."

The little elf held firm as Hermione tried to placate him. "We're sorry, Kreacher. You're doing such a wonderful job looking after Harry, but we need to help him—"

"Help, Miss Hermione calls it? Help, to tell the good Master he's doing wrong by supporting others? You don't hear his nightmares after every visit. You don't see him in the morning, when the sadness takes him. It hurts Kreacher's Master every time, but he goes back. It's not out of guilt, it's out of love. And _you-_" he turns to Ron accusingly, "you of all people should understand the difference, helping that brother of yours out in his shop."

"Kreacher," Harry croaked out, emotion making his voice crack. "That's enough Kreacher, thank you, but I can handle this now. You can go."

"Master," the elf replied, bowing low. He shot off one last glare, before trundling back to his cupboard.

Hermione reached for his hand. "Harry—"

He shook his head. "Don't." He glanced at Ron, whose face was pale beneath the freckles. "I'm sorry for what he said about George – but he's right. I couldn't leave them any more than you could leave him."

Ron nodded, dishing himself up more stickydate pudding. "It's alright, mate, we understand. We'll stop pushing."

A voice spoke up. "Would you like to search for the Crumple-Horned Snorcack on Sunday?"

Harry glanced at Luna, surprised. "I thought you said they live in Sweden."

"Oh, they do," she assured him. "But if Hermione didn't remember that Daddy and I actually search for them in Summer, I doubt Georgia and Charlie will remember they aren't native."

"Georgia and Charlie…"

"Oh yes, if we're going to be searching by the castle we should invite them, don't you think? They did say they wanted to enjoy the scenery with you, and Hufflepuffs are supposed to be good at searching for things."

He stared at her for a moment, not sure if she was really as foolhardy as she seemed…

"I was thinking we might send them off into the hills together, and you and I could check by the path down to Hogsmeade…"

Harry grinned; Ron snorted; Hermione bit back a laugh, and began lecturing the younger girl on not sending people into the snow to freeze to death; Luna just smiled.


	2. Draco Malfoy and the Surprising Request

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry, or Draco, or Kreacher, or anyone you recognise from Rowling. I do, however, own Julian, Daniel, Mrs Radley and Healer Swift.

**AN:** Here (finally) is chapter two! I'm sorry this took so long; I had a horrible case of writer's block, partly because what I'd already written was of shocking quality… But I'm happy with it now! I hope you enjoy.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two – Draco Malfoy and the Surprising Request<strong>

Over the course of the next few days, Harry learnt just how difficult it was to deny an inconvenient truth. Yes, his friends had failed to understand his current lifestyle, but to some degree they were right. He _was _lonely and he _was _hiding – but he didn't intend to admit it.

Harry spent Saturday mulling over their words, and grumbling to himself about the unfairness of it all. The fact that this occurred while alone in a big empty house, and on the type of Winter day when you just want to cuddle up with a loved one by the fire… Well, that probably didn't help.

Sunday was Bill's 28th birthday, and the Weasley's and the Order were all crammed into Shell Cottage for the special occasion. It didn't take long for him to seek Ginny out, and lecture her on the right to privacy (specifically his) and the consequences of such unwanted interference (which included a few choice words to her mother). Needless to say, she wasn't cowed by the scruffy hero with untameable hair, and had silenced him with a look.  
>"Quit whining! You're acting like a child because you're too scared to work for what you want."<br>"And how would you know what I want?" he snapped – irked, because he wasn't sure he knew himself.  
>"Oh please. You want love and companionship; it's all you've ever wanted."<p>

Monday, Harry cursed his luck when he ran into Neville at one in an endless string of building sites. Of all the piles of rubble in all of the United Kingdom, _of course_ they would both volunteer at that one. But in the end it was Harry pestering Neville, who flat out refused to get involved. Unlike Ginny and the others, Neville still believed Harry capable of patching himself together – but he didn't particularly want to provoke her wrath by saying so.

Tuesday, at least, was a day of respite – if it could really be called that. Tuesdays were always spent at the hospital, and while there was still some good news to be had, many of those Harry visited at St. Mungo's were unlikely to recover. That night he returned home with the inevitable feeling of helplessness - the one that he could never shake by morning.

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><p><strong>Wednesday: 2<strong>**nd**** December, 1998**

Wednesday morning couldn't come soon enough. It was the one time a week Harry made himself rest, and he was determined not to let his friends' words bother him. It's not like he exactly knew how to act on them, even if he wanted to.

Unfortunately for Harry, it is a sad truth that once the Fates have you in their jaws, they rarely let go. When he finally managed to drag himself out of bed, it was to find Molly Weasley perfectly at home in the kitchen, puttering around and probably making yet more food to stick in his overstocked freezer.

"Good morning, Harry, dear, I let myself in, hope you don't mind, your breakfast's over there on the table, eat up quickly now, before it gets cold. I was just about to get you up, there's no reason to be staying in bed just because you have nothing to do! Oh but you have had a rough week, haven't you dear? I heard you and Ginny talking at Bill's birthday, well I heard Ginny, she can get quite a bit of volume when she puts her mind to it, she'll be a great mother to Neville's children; he's such a lovely boy, isn't he? Oh but the party! Did you see the table? Of course you saw it; Fleur put out quite the spread, I was very impressed. Bill seems very happy with her, bless him, and there's no doubt that she will make fine children, especially with a bit of Prewett blood in there, they'll be strong as oxen, and so very pretty. But Ginny is right you know, dear, if you insist on living away from the family, it's about time you settled down, you need someone around or you'll turn out just like your godfather, he always did have a tendency to mope when no one was in the house—"

"Settle down?" Harry blurted out when he had finally swallowed the bacon. "I'm only eighteen for crying out loud! I don't even have a— girlfriend!"

Molly stopped in her tracks, turning to him with surprise. She smiled fondly, coming over to pat him on the cheek just as one would when humouring a child. "Yes, Harry dear, but you were ready for love a long time ago."

He just gaped at the woman while she turned back to her cooking.

"You need someone who'll look at you like you're really special, not just their saviour, or something equally ridiculous; someone who won't put up with all your melodrama. Oh! Is that the time? I'd better be going, don't forget there's a pie in the oven, have a good day dear!"

oOoOoOo

The afternoon was spent back at the hospital, but when Harry finally trudged back into the kitchen, exhausted, it was to find the oven again in use.

The room smelled strongly of fresh-baked bread, and there was a cauldron-type pot simmering in the over-large fireplace… That explained why the Floo was out of order at least.

"Kreacher?" Harry called, and the small elf stuck its head out of the pantry.

"Kreacher won't be a minute Master, just finding some herbs. You sit down and rest, and Kreacher will make you some tea."

Harry sank gratefully into the nearest chair. "How was your day, Kreacher?"

A voice floated out of the attached room. "Kreacher has been busy, Sir." Before Harry could protest, he added pointedly, "Just as Kreacher _likes _to be."

"Oh alright," Harry grumbled. "Do what you like. I am supposed to be your master, you know!"

"Kreacher is unlikely to forget, _Master_. But you is not understanding, lazy is for wizards-"

"Hey!"

"-it is an elves pride to work." he finished, exiting the pantry holding two large leaves Harry couldn't identify. "Now, how are Mister Harry's friends? Master stayed past hours again today."

Harry sighed. "It's been good and bad. Mrs Radley is getting better at handling the pain, but even the new potions don't make it go away completely. And before you say anything, I did suggest the Healer's consult with some elves, and Jennings at least has promised to think over it."

Kreacher narrowed his eyes at this, dropping one leaf in the big pot, and then stepping back before his anger could damage the contents. "Foolish witches and wizards, think they know best. Mark Kreacher's words – some will die without his people's help."

He winced. "I know, Kreacher. Simon Potts – the one with the 'unknown' curse you said an elf had treated before – he's willing to try whatever remedy you and Gerda come up with, but he's been under the care of Healer Smyth ever since that incident on the third floor last month, and you know what he's like."

The elf deigned not to comment this time, but wandered over to the stove with the second leaf, muttering under his breath. Harry watched him, startled to see that he'd overlooked a large saucepan, simmering on the hotplate.

"Kreacher! Thank you, for cooking, but I don't think I could eat all thateven if Ron stayed for a _week_._"_

"It's not _for _you, Master," Kreacher replied, ripping this leaf into pieces before dropping it in.

"But-"

"Kreacher has made soup for the shelter." – busying himself at the bench – "He has been keeping their supplies stocked this winter."

Harry was glad he didn't have tea yet, or he might have spit it over the table. "You… what? Are you saying you're feeding the homeless?"

Kreacher kept his back turned, busy with the kettle. "Master said Kreacher wasn't to spend all day working for him. So Kreacher hasn't."

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then thought for a moment. It wasn't doing any harm… He shrugged. "If it's what you want. But… the shelter is for Muggles, isn't it? I don't think they'd accept food if you just left it in pots by the door."

"No, Mister Harry, they didn't. Kreacher tried that. Miss Hermione sends someone to collect it."

Harry spluttered. "Hermione?_ Our_ Hermione? The same Hermione who keeps trying to pay you?"

"Yes, Mister Harry."

"She's helping you work _more_?"

"Honestly, Sir, Kreacher thinks Miss Hermione is frightened by what he might do to the Muggles if she didn't. " Harry was almost sure the elf was smirking. "Here is Master's tea."

"Thanks," he muttered, still a little dazed. "And neither of you bothered saying a word to me?"

"No, Sir," Kreacher replied, spelling the contents of the cauldron into what looked suspiciously like _Tupperware_. Well. "It is Kreacher's kitchen, and Kreacher's time – Master said so."

"Master did," Harry agreed, turning his attention to the tendrils of steam floating out of his mug. Kreacher soon joined him with his own cup of Harry didn't want to know what.

It was unusual but not uncommon for the two to sit together like this. As they'd struck up some kind of friendship, the elf seemed to consider keeping Harry company as another of his duties, and most visits to St. Mungo's ended with this kind of debriefing in the kitchen.

"Xenophilius had another panic attack." Harry said, continuing his report quietly. "He's meant to go home tomorrow, but even with therapy, he's terrified."

"Miss Luna?" Kreacher asked, just as quietly. He liked the relaxed Ravenclaw, and seemed to worry about her almost more than Harry.

"She seemed ok, but I Owled Neville and let him know."

Kreacher nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Julian Murany still isn't responding. I went for tea with Daniel to get him away for a while - that's why I was so late - and he spent the entire two hours telling stories of their childhood. It's good for him, I suppose, to have someone to talk to, and remember the good times – but he still won't mention the rest of their family. He holds it together really well in her room, but he needs support. I left him with Swift, the new trainee Healer. She talks a mile a minute, so maybe she can distract him."

Another nod.  
>Harry didn't know what he'd do without Kreacher. He liked to cook his own meals, and cleaning turned out to be a great way to burn off excess emotion, but some days it was those little nods of approval, acceptance, support – whatever – that kept him going.<p>

"Then there's the girl on level three who still won't tell us her name..."

* * *

><p>Harry was lonely.<p>

Kreacher had disappeared into his cupboard for the night, Ron and Hermione were on a date, Neville and Luna were visiting Ginny, and George was catching up with Lee. He was left alone, cooking for one in the cavernous kitchen, and feeling the space keenly. He'd tried humming to break the silence, but instead it just made him feel pathetic. It was nights like this that Harry's need for someone was like an ache in his chest; but it was also nights like this that had him feeling too cowardly to leave the house.

Just as he was heating up some pumpkin soup on the stove, Harry was interrupted by the clanging sound of the doorbell. The noise was highly welcome, yet the occurrence was bizarre.

His school friends and the members of Order of the Phoenix were the only people who knew the whereabouts of Grimmauld Place - or so it was thought - and they had learned by now to _never_ use the doorbell, or even to knock. While the house elf heads were gone, along with everything else creepy, the painting of Sirius' mother was yet to be 'un-stuck', and the slightest noise – especially one of 'intrusion' – would set her off.

If someone had used the doorbell instead of simply letting themselves in, or Flooing, they mustn't be a friend. Keeping his wand in hand, Harry crept to the door, letting Mrs Black's shrieks cover the sound of his footsteps. He cautiously raised his eye to the peephole… and was so surprised at what he saw, that he swung the door open without a thought.

"Malfoy?"

Harry briefly wondered if perhaps Ron was playing a joke; Polyjuice Potion?

"That's right, Potter. Your powers of observation _astound_ me." Sarcasm dripped from every word.

So… not Ron then.  
>Harry was too surprised to even be annoyed.<p>

"Right, sorry. Err… What brings you here then?" A thought occurred to him, and he frowned. "And how the hell can you see my house?"

On close inspection, Malfoy actually looked a little nervous behind his mask of arrogant indifference. "Look, could I come in? I feel like an ass standing out here talking to a 'wall', and speaking of my arse, it's freezing."

"Um… Sure."

In war you grew up fast, and Harry had definitely matured since their last Hogwarts year together. Going by Malfoy's greeting, however, he didn't seem in a hurry to drop the feud, so when the Slytherin tried to push past, Harry barred the way with his arm.

"Just one thing: we're not in Hogwarts anymore, Malfoy. This is my home, and I'm afraid it's 'my house, my rules'. We're both going to be civil… or try to be, anyway, or you can trudge right back to your precious Manor. Do we have a deal?"

Malfoy looked unsure at actually shaking the hand of the Boy-Who'd-Touched-Muggles, but he took it nonetheless.

"After you," Harry said, seeming to play the gracious host, but really making sure Malfoy understood first-hand the consequences of his willy-nilly doorbell-ringing.

"HEY MALFOY!" he yelled, as he joined him in the hall. "MEET YOUR GREAT AUNT, WALBURGA BLACK!"

Malfoy grimaced, pulling out his wand to attempt a Silencing spell, Harry assumed.

He shook his head, grabbing one curtain. "NO POINT." Nodding his head at the other, Harry began to wrestle it into position, Malfoy pulling just as hard, until finally they met in the middle, red-faced and panting. Harry grinned, and flicked his head towards a doorway.

* * *

><p>Draco followed him through to the top of a staircase, leading down into a warm cavernous room, vaguely reminiscent of his own kitchen at the Manor. It was nowhere near as impressive, of course, belonging to a humble town-house, but the dimensions were doubtless enough to stun a boy of such simple origins as Potter.<p>

Speaking of Potter, he seemed to be explaining something, glancing at Draco's wand. "Ironically, we have to shut her up the Muggle way."

Draco frowned, rubbing at his nose and remembering his own encounter with Muggle tactics. "Wouldn't that involve a punch to the face?"

Potter looked at him in surprise before glancing about the room, seemingly to make sure it was truly Draco who had spoken. He raised a brow mockingly. "What is it Potter? Don't think I can tell a joke?"

Potter rolled his eyes – he really was uncouth – and replied, "No, I just never thought to hear one at someone else's expense."

Draco smirked. "You wound me. Have I not told many jokes at the expense of Granger and Weasel?"

Potter grimaced. "Touche, Malfoy. I walked into that one. I was just about to have dinner, have you eaten?"

Draco paused. This wasn't what he'd come for, but… "Well, no," he admitted, managing not to fidget.

Potter nodded, unfazed. "Is pumpkin soup alright? Tea?"

"Thank you," he slipped out, through force of habit. Potter's eyes widened, and he smirked; "I _was _raised with manners, you know."

Potter flushed, looking away. "Of course, yeah. How do you have your tea?"

"The same as—" _The same as you, _he thought; best not to admit to that. "The same as all sensible wizards, white with three sugars."

He decidedly ignored the way Potter's eyes sparkled. "Not going to argue there. Now go sit by the fire and thaw out your _precious arse_ while I grab the food."

Draco sussed out the cushioned benches at his disposal, ultimately choosing the least faded, though probably most uncomfortable of the two. The fact that there was a pile of books and an already empty mug by the other had nothing to do with his choice, of course, he just preferred things to be in good repair - consequence of his Pureblood upbringing and all that.

Glancing over to the long line of counters, he watched Potter for a moment, noting his ease of movement in this house that seemed so contrary to his nature. After a moment he gave in to the lure of the flames, turning his mind back to what the Gryffindor was likely contemplating – his reason for being here.

After a few minutes Potter wandered over, levitating the dishes before him. Draco raised his eyebrow.

"Really? We're eating here?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Honestly, Potter, you have a perfectly good table over there. Do you ever use it?"

"Yep! And sometimes I don't," he added cheerfully. "Look, if you're scared of spilling your food you can go over there, or pull up an end-table or something, but I'm not moving. Now eat."

Draco scowled, but obeyed.

They ate in silence for a while, each sneaking awkward glances at the other, before Potter's curiosity apparently got the better of him. "Err… So what brings you to Grimmauld Place, Malfoy? Get tired of your big empty house?"

Draco opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. He shut it again. It was certainly not the hardest thing he'd been required to do, but it was decidedly unpleasant – swallowing his pride and asking _Potter_—

"It's— I… Well you see…. It's a long story, Potter, and I'm not in the fittest state to tell it. Could we… perhaps talk about something else for a while?"

His companion seemed surprised, but not as much as Draco was when he patiently agreed. Merlin, why was the man always such a bloody saint?

"Sure Malfoy, pick a topic. I believe you've already touched on the weather," he added dryly.

Draco was surprised; _Potter _knew of the existence of subtle humour? Not only that, he knew how to use it correctly? And had used it _politely_ while speaking to a Malfoy? There were no words…

"How about Quidditch? Catch that match last night? …Malfoy? No, nevermind, neither did I…"

But then things got worse: teasing. "You know this usually works best if you talk. I don't know how conversations go in Slytherin, but us Gryffindors, we prefer the method of give and take. See, first I say something, and then you reply. It's much like our arguments really, but without as many profanities or aspersions cast on the honour of the other's mother."

A surprised laugh choked its way out of Draco, and Potter cracked a mischievous smile. Draco looked away.

"If I can't curse you in your own home, and our usual methods of communication fail to fit the criteria of this 'conversation' of which you speak… What in Merlin's name is left to us?"

The smile spread to a grin, and suddenly he was fighting back one of his own. Merlin forfend he actually _enjoy_ this.

"There's plenty we could talk about!" Potter cast around for a moment. "Err… the war?"

Draco shook his head. "I'd rather not reduce you to tears." Remembering the promise to be civil, he hurriedly added, "Anyway, we fought on opposite sides – our views are hardly going to be the same, are they?"

It seemed this hadn't actually occurred to Potter; unlike Draco, he probably wasn't used to holding polite conversation with the enemy. "True, true… School?"

"Not much to say; I didn't go back. I thought you hadn't either? Isn't that why you're here?"

"No, I'm just… Well, yeah. I guess I won't be going back. Too many memories, you know?" Draco nodded – he knew. "Now I kind of just do whatever comes up."

He smirked knowingly, "Hero stuff."

"I do not!" Potter objected.

Draco drew up a brow – _'Oh really?' –_ "Didn't you just open a new wing at St Mungo's for underage victims of the war?"

Potter blushed, reaching for his tea to have something to hide behind.

"And wasn't I just reading about your peerless good works in _The Quibbler_?"

Tea sprayed across the floor, and Draco jumped as Potter burst into laughter. "You read _The Quibbler_? Wait 'til I tell Luna…"

Draco scowled, not liking the sensation of being laughed at, and also not liking the confusion. "The Lovegood girl? Why would she care?"

"You didn't know?" Potter asked, surprised. At the blank stare he added, "Her dad's the editor."

"What, the barmy man who writes the editorials? Xeno…"

"Xenophilius," Potter nodded. "And yes," he added – "That _is _what editors do."

"Oh shut up Potter," he snapped, almost reflexively. Draco thought for a moment, staring at the bare flagstones of the floor. "Lovegood's father editor of _The Quibbler… _Huh. That explains a lot."

And Potter was gone again. It was surprisingly easy to make him laugh, and Draco tried not to enjoy the sensation too much. When at last he calmed down (and Draco stopped looking smug), Potter turned the conversation back to its starting point.

"Right, school is not a good idea. Oh! How about polite enquiries? How are your parents?"

It was almost amusing, he was so eager to please… "Potter, Potter, Potter. _How_, exactly, do you propose we talk about my parents – currently imprisoned in Azkaban for their rather major role as your opposition in the recently ended war – without mentioning said war?" Uncomfortable at the thought of revealing too much about his family's situation, Draco continued. "Or my great and noble family name, the impugning of which would inevitably end in blood-shed and a rather dishevelled kitchen?"

Potter flushed pink. "Um… by saying nothing?"

Draco smirked, "Exactly. But that doesn't entirely rule out the enquiries. How are the Weasley's?"

Potter frowned, and he remembered a moment too late having heard a brother was killed. He swore internally, and was about to apologise when Potter simply said, "Too close to the war."

Draco was surprised by the effort to keep the peace – it seemed Potter was a greater man than he – and showed his gratitude by keeping himself from swallowing _both _feet while he searched for a permitted topic.

Refuge came in the form of a question, the answer to which he'd been curious about for some time, but had never though he'd be given the opportunity to discover. It was a bit risky but, under the circumstances, it was the best he had.

"How's Granger coping, what with all the politics and the spotlight and everything?"

Potter paused for a moment, seemingly waiting for some comment about Mudbloods and wizarding politics being an inevitably bad mix, but it didn't come.

In response to the questioning glance, Draco shrugged defensively. "I know what a tough gig the wizarding political scene can be, and that's _without _the added pressure of a radical reform. The world may love her right now, but witches and wizards have a long history of a deep-rooted fear of change, especially us nobility. You Gryffs and that mad Ravenclaw need to watch out for her."

Oh Merlin, and now Potter had a thoughtful look on his face that, quite frankly, scared Draco. Who knew what kind of wacked out conclusions he may be reaching inside his war-addled brain? But instead of pushing, he simply nodded and said, "Duly noted."

* * *

><p>This wasn't so bad, Harry thought. Malfoy was actually pretty decent company once you got past the sneering and the condescension, and managed to prevent him from hexing you. He'd been surprised to find they could almost get along, but now Malfoy had really thrown him. It was strange to think that Draco Malfoy - the boy they'd thought to be the heir of Slytherin because of his conspicuous hatred for 'mudbloods' - should ask the question that none of her friends had even considered.<p>

Because really, she was Hermione; she was brilliant, and scary, and nothing could stand in her way. The war had ended when it had purely because she _would not give up _in her search for information on possible horcruxes. What were a handful of daft politicians to the torture of Bellatrix Lestrange?

He sat back on the bench for a moment, staring into the fire and considering his response. "She's doing pretty well, considering the morons she has to put up with. I mean, some people have been ok, and actually respect everything she's done considering her age… But it's weird, they're the most argumentative. The others are too busy kissing her boots, hoping some of the power will rub off, but they still don't want her reform to _get _anywhere."

Malfoy snorted, "That doesn't surprise me. Most of them are just puppets, set in place by men like my father; they don't actually knowwhat politicians are supposed to do."

Harry felt his lips twist into a malicious grin. "Well they'd better start working out what the rest of us do, because they won't be politicians for long."

Malfoy's eyebrows rose questioningly, but Harry decided to leave his remark as it stood. He frowned, face the picture of concern, and added hesitantly, "Actually, Hermione did have a problem the other day…"

It worked as a distraction; Malfoy was suddenly sitting up straight, all ears, waiting to hear what could possibly have troubled the brightest witch of her age.

"Yeah, she was having some trouble trying to change the title of Supreme Mugwump, but she got there in the end—"

"She did _what?_" Harry fought back a smile; scandalising Malfoy was fun! "The Supreme Mugwump has been around for centuries, dating almost back to the days of Merlin himself! _No one_ can change a tradition that old…"

Now Harry was a little surprised. He knew the entire Wizengamot had put up a big fight, more than they had for any other reform, but he'd thought it was just because it seemed somewhat nit-picky. But now he knew she'd done the impossible, he actually felt kind of proud. "Well, apparently 'Mione can. Though they did put up quite the fight."

Malfoy nodded, eyes wide; apparently he was still a little dazed. "I can imagine. So how did she do it?"

"Calm negotiation. Actually," he added meditatively, "I think she was quite happy to get the chance to _be _calm; Ron and I only listen when she starts screaming."

Malfoy shook his head. "But why would they ever agree to that? What could she possibly say? And _why _did she fight so hard to change it?"

"Ah, well see, Hermione's logic is without fault. I swear she could convince you that the grass is blue and you wouldn't be able to find any flaw in her argument. As for why, it was actually Ron's idea; he thought it was giving the wrong – or rather, unfortunately accurate – impression of Wizarding elitism, because it sounded like a 'wumper' or beater of Muggles."

"_What? _I mean, I never thought I'd say this, but he does have a point. But—Weasley you say? That's… that's a little unsettling."

Harry laughed. "I know; it seems odd that he would be the one with the moral conscience." He made a face. "Though I think it he said it just so 'Mione would drop her scrolls and snog him again; apparently he hadn't been getting much action."

Malfoy shuddered, looking at the remainder of his soup with a sudden and marked lack of interest. "Ew. Granger and Weasel, not an image I needed while eating."

Harry nodded sympathetically, "Yup. At least Gin and Neville have enough sense to keep it behind closed doors."

"Wait, the Weaselette and Longbottom? I thought you and the red-head were, you know, an item…"

Harry glanced up, surprised. "Where have you been hiding? This happened months ago, _Witch Weekly _was all over it – even the_ Daily Prophet _was full of sob stories about Neville going off the market."

Malfoy sniffed in disdain. "I've had better things to do with my time than read, or believe, ridiculous articles of tabloid journalism."

Harry laughed. "Of course you have, Malfoy. I apologise for insinuating otherwise."

There was a pause, during which Harry noticed the empty bowls and cups at their feet, and sent them soaring to the sink with a flick of his wand.

"To think," Malfoy said, breaking the silence. "I was so sure you'd all be one big happy Weasley family."

Harry shrugged. "Ginny and I are just friends. She's good with Nev, he's actually a bit more clued in – she doesn't need to fight the urge to slap him upside the head every five seconds."

Malfoy smirked; "Yes, I can see why the temptation may be a little strong to resist with you."

"Oi!" Harry laughed. "I'll have you know I'm quite the catch."

Malfoy scoffed. "Oh really? That explains why you're hiding in a basement, with only your former enemy, a social pariah, for company-"

"I'll have you know that I am a highly sought after individual! Of the young, smouldering male variety, or so Luna tells me. I practically get jumped by fangirls when I'm walking down the street."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, looking doubtful, and Harry laughed. "Not boasting! Just…" He gestured around the kitchen, encompassing the unlikely surroundings for the Wizarding World's hero. "Look at this; who would search for the Chosen One in a basement in Grimmauld Place? Plus, with the Fidelius…" He shrugged. "So yeah, I'm hiding. But I'm waiting for the person who'll seek me out in a dingy kitchen in an invisible house; the person who'll want to spend time with _me,_ and not my fame," he finished with a grimace.

Malfoy shifted a little in his seat, carefully avoiding his eye, and Harry wondered if he was thinking of his own unique qualifications – after all, Malfoy _had _come to him…  
>But no, he was hardly here to bond with the man he'd never shared a civilised conversation with. Most likely he was contemplating Harry's choice of words – "person", not "woman".<p>

After all the hell he'd been through – growing up without a family, never expecting to live past the war and start his own, seeing his friends pairing up and finding contentment – Harry didn't really see the point in letting something as insignificant as gender stand in the way of a true partnership and happiness. He knew it wasn't a choice, but he was entirely comfortable with his bisexuality. Of course, it didn't hurt to see London's 'fashionable' young men and women walking about in their skin-tight jeans…

Harry cleared his throat. "Speaking of the Fidelius, how _were _you able to see the place?"

Even after an hour's relaxed conversation (and really, how did time go that fast?), Malfoy still seemed uncomfortable at the idea of telling his tale. He stared at his hands and twisted his fingers together, the action making the blonde seem suddenly vulnerable… Harry decided to give him a moment's privacy, getting up to check the progress of the dishes.

After a few more minutes of silence - which was strained, despite any effort to keep it from being awkward - Harry glanced casually at the clock, yawning. "It's getting late. What a day… You wouldn't think it could be so exhausting listening to people talk, but some of them become quite emotional, and then you feel guilty, and… Well, it takes its toll."

Still more silence; he turned with a suppressed sigh to find Malfoy imitating a goldfish, mouth opening and closing while he tried to find words. With the firelight glinting in his unsure eyes, and turning his hair to gold, the sight was unusual enough to trick Harry's tired mind for a moment. Who was this creature sitting before him? Surely, it couldn't be Malfoy…

Suddenly he was able to imagine them meeting for the first time, aged eighteen instead of eleven. Maybe Malfoy would have fallen in the street, sliding over a hidden patch of ice. Harry would see it in slow motion, the elegantly dressed blonde's packages flying out of his arms as he went down fast, too fast to prevent the inevitable. Whoosh, right into a drift of snow. He'd have been carrying books; they were ruined now. Harry would rush to help him, offer him a hand up…

This time it would be Malfoy who rejected the hand with a glare, Harry who withdrew it stung. Then Harry would double over, laughing, as the proud stranger tried to get to his feet but slipped and fell once more. The not-so-put-together man would hiss, and kick at his shins, and then he'd go down too, sprawled on the pavement. They'd stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed, wondering how it was that they could be so rude to this stranger, yet feel drawn to them all the same… Like they'd met in some other life…

Harry would be entranced by the aristocratic beauty, tip of his nose red with cold, flakes of snow alighting on his prominent cheek bones, and settling in his lashes… Malfoy would shake it off first, grinning sheepishly as he offered up an apology. Harry's heart would skip a beat, then just skip, then leap around in his chest – oh my. He'd grin back mindlessly, dazzled, and his companion would start, and then blush and turn away. They'd stumble to their feet, hanging off each other, slipping and tumbling and bringing the other crashing down again… The people walking by would think they were mental – would think, from their laughter, that they must have known each other for years…

Eventually they'd manage to stand, Malfoy's books shared in both their arms, and Harry would forget his errand, offer a cup of tea, a cosy fire, a shower and a blanket – his house is right around the corner. Malfoy would blush again, "Draco." And Harry would just nod with an understanding smile, and say, "Dragon. Nice." His head would tilt a little, the hint of a smirk on his lips. "Suits you. Harry, by the way."

.

.

.

"—not really sure where to begin, but you're right, it's getting late, and the least I could do is try and explain before begging more of your hospitality. So help me, if you make _one_ sarcastic comment about begging, I'll… Potter? Pootteeerr… _Harry!_"

He jumped, the sound of his name on those lips bringing him out of the strange reverie. He blinked the strange images away, focussing on the real figure before him – the very real, and very infuriating Malfoy. But… He hadn't been so very awful tonight; he'd been relatively civil, and almost _fun_. His nose may not have been red, but the fire had turned his cheeks pink, almost like he was blushing… Who was this creature? And Harry still hadn't said anything yet—

"Right, sorry. Um… You sit down, I'll—pudding?"

Malfoy was looking concerned, and lord, that wasn't helping. "Are you alright? You're not making any sense, and Merlin, you look like you've seen a ghost." Realising what he'd said, the Slytherin paled. "_Shit!_ I mean, I'm sorry, just, err…"

If things weren't all suddenly going to hell, Harry may have found the image of a frazzled Malfoy amusing. But as things stood, he didn't, he could only remember the sheepish apology of that other world's Draco, and compare it to this anxious admission. The words were the same – and surely he was still dreaming, a Malfoy saying sorry? – but the tones were so different, the regrettable deeds, the circumstances… Damn it, why couldn't they have lived in _that_ world?

And what the hell was he thinking? Wishing he could flirt with Malfoy - he had to be going mad!

But then an unwelcome thought seemed to come to the blonde, and he stepped backwards, edging towards the door and an uncertain future and cool composure. "Is it because…? I'm sorry, Potter, I shouldn't have called you —It was too familiar, we're not even friends. In fact, you hate me, and here I am in your kitchen, taking up your time and eating your food and asking… Nevermind. I'll just leave, sorry to bother you."

His voice is quiet, and if it wasn't Malfoy Harry would be worried; but the fact that it _is_ Malfoy worries him, he's always been such a loud-mouthed git; and the fact that he's worried despite their history is really starting to worry him further. What the hell is going on here?

Harry shook his head, mentally slapping himself out of his hysteria. "No, I'm sorry Malfoy. Um… Draco. I just… remembered something from the war." His lips curled up, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine, really, happens all the time." _Liar, liar, pants on fire…_

Malfoy still looked unsure, but he did stop backing away like a caged beast. Harry sighed. This was ridiculous, walking on tiptoes around each other; the other Draco and Harry may not have faced death, but they were still confident. They couldn't let the war make them into timid, oversensitive creatures; it was time to buck up.

Harry fixed Malfoy with a stern gaze. "However, I think you're right, first name basis is far too familiar. You're in my house now, Malfoy, and you'll live by my rules!" He just managed to bite back the despotic laugh that was threatening.

Malfoy jumped at the sudden change in demeanour, then apparently his brain decided to just give in, and he stood for a moment, stunned.

"Harry indeed." Harry shook his head mock-disapprovingly, and then winked. "Lighten up Malfoy! And for heaven's sake, sit down while I get desert!"

Malfoy sat, frowned… Thought, realised, glared - and then tried very hard to fight a grateful smile.

As Harry's hand reached into the freezer, pulling out a covered dish, the cold reminded him once more of the unwelcome fall into the snow drift, the delicate flakes on the handsome man's cheeks, the cold biting air, the promise of a warm fire and good company to cheer him… Best not to think of that.

"It's sticky-date pudding, I hope you don't mind. There's not much left, I'm afraid Ron found it, so… Sorry about that that."

He busied himself with heating the oven, making sure to hold his wand at the right angle while he muttered the spell – it took some getting used to, the magical appliance. Too high, they'd end up with charcoal; too low, they'd be here forever.

While the desert de-frosted and cooked, he filled the kettle again – "Tea?" "What? No, Potter, you just had a cup!" "Well," affronted, "you can never have too much of a good thing." – and kept up a string of nonsense rambling that Malfoy would barely need to respond to, giving him time to gather his thoughts and find words.

Five minutes found him seated by the fire again, pulling up a decadent, but now sadly coffee-ringed, end-table that he'd found hiding in the attic. Ignoring Malfoy's shocked look, he deposited the bowls and mug with a flourish. "Ta-da!"

* * *

><p>Potter was insane. He had to be. Draco stared at him, feeling his mouth fall open in shock (again), but it was late and he was tired and that was a Roussillon and quite frankly he just didn't care.<p>

"Don't look at me like that," Potter defended. "'Mione says it's just a copy."

Draco _almost _flinched. "Oh really," he deadpanned. "And what would she know about priceless Wizarding antiques?"

The pause was uncomfortably long. "Well…"

"Exactly," he muttered, pulling his wand to restore some of the varnish. Nothing could be done to preserve its value, but it could at least look presentable. "I'm sure she probably saved your life at least once, but you really put too much store in Granger's words. The Black's would never buy a _copy_, Potter."

He shrugged. "Well, there is that."

Heaving a monumental sigh, Draco inspected the contents of his bowl, and tried not to look too disdainfully at the almost plebeian meal he was about to consume. It wasn't Potter's fault, really – he was just accustomed to a classier style of life. But then, it had been quite a while since he'd actually lived that way. Draco could barely remember the last time he ate a decent meal full stop, appropriate or otherwise. As for eating at the dining table… That was simply out of the question.

He held back another small sigh, a real one this time, and glanced up into inquisitive green eyes. As uncomfortable with this situation as he was, Draco had to admit that Grimmauld Place was his best option, and so, by extension, was Potter. It could be worse, he supposed; he could be about to apply to Weasley for sanctuary… He tried not to shudder at the thought.

Long seconds passed as they ate in silence, Potter apparently determined to hear what Draco had to say. Dear Merlin, he really didn't want to do this…

In the end, though, everything came down to duty: it was Draco's responsibility to ensure his line continued, and he could hardly do that living on the streets. It was for this reason, more than any kind of self-preservation, that he took a deep breath, swallowed his pride, and forced the words out.

"I, Draco Malfoy, son of Narcissa Black, request sanctuary at the Black family residence, having been forcibly evicted from my ancestral home and left with no other place to turn."


	3. Harry Potter & the Reluctant Hippogriff

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything in this chapter, other than the writing itself.

**AN: **Hi! So, a month is probably an unacceptable wait for a chapter, but I'm pretty pleased because this is the first one I started from scratch after posting the previous chapter. I think it might also be my favourite so far. Also, I'm staring University in three weeks (THREE WEEKS!), so I have no idea when the next update will be, especially as I have no plan for the immediate future of the fic. Expect a wait. Thanks for reading!

**Warning: **A little bit of language here. Our boys do have tempers, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three – Harry Potter and the Reluctant Hippogriff<strong>

**Wednesday: 2nd December, 1998  
><strong>

"I, Draco Malfoy, son of Narcissa Black, request sanctuary at the Black family residence, having been forcibly evicted from my ancestral home and left with no other place to turn."

Potter blinked. "You… what?"

"Basically, I'm homeless." Draco said, squirming. "I could have gone to a shelter, but I figured I might as well just come here. You were always doing so many good deeds in school; I figured why would you stop now? Better the angel you know than the one you don't," he rambled.

"Devil," Potter supplied distractedly, staring vaguely into the middle distance.

"Hmm?"

"Better the devil you know. That's how the phrase goes."

Draco smirked. "Well, I didn't really think it was applicable. But if you'd rather I-"

"I'm not buying it," Potter interrupted with an air of finality, and calmly began to eat.

Draco bit back his words; he hadn't been expecting that. If he was honest, he'd expected… Well, laughter; or gloating; or a 'Why should I care?'  
>He swallowed, and tried again. "Look, whether you believe it or not, nothing changes. I really <em>have<em> been made to leave. The ancient appeal-"

"Not that," Potter cut in _again_, and Draco's hand twitched towards his wand. "I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for you being kicked out of the Manor. It's the coming here part I don't like. Why would you come to _my_ _house_? Malfoy, you're the proudest person I know – and not in the good way; surely this has got to be…" At that point his manners seemed to kick in again, and he trailed off.

"Terribly shameful, yes," Draco finished drily. "But it's not your house, Potter, it's—"

"It is my house! Sirius left it to me, and—"

"If you'd just stop interrupting!" Draco snapped.

He could seethe struggle as Potter held back his words. One hand had clenched around his spoon, and when Draco raised a judgemental brow, he pushed the bowl away roughly. Finally, he took a calming breath, shoving one hand messily through his hair, and then nodded. "Go on."

"Yes," Draco continued, after a further moment's pause. "The house is legally yours. First and foremost, however, twelve Grimmauld Place is the Black family residence, in the same way the Manor is the home of the Malfoy's."

There was a pause, while he took this in. "And Shell Cottage?" Potter asked.

"What_?_"

"Bill Weasley's house," he elaborated. "He's a pureblood; is that a family residence too?"

Draco was silent for long seconds. _This is Potter_, he reminded himself. _He defies logic. Just humour him before you're hurt or humiliated._

"Well… no, actually. There's only one family residence for each line, and the Weasley's official home is the Burrow," he explained. "But Potter, why are you asking about that?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

Draco frowned, and took a small calming breath of his own. "Surely you must have other questions."

"Surely I must," Potter agreed, picking up his tea. "But you haven't answered my last, yet. Why didn't you go to your friends, or someplace you'd be guaranteed anonymity? Why come to Grimmauld Place – Black residence or not – when you know I live here?"

"Because they could still throw me out, whereas you-"

Draco paused, Potter watching him expectantly over the top of his cup. _You have to let me stay_. He'd been relying on this point, but now that it came down to it, he didn't want to admit it. The request had been made, an ancient appeal, and Potter had no choice now but to gift him with sanctuary, however reluctant he was. But the appeal didn't stop Draco from _leaving_, and suddenly he knew that if Potter didn't want him, he would go. He didn't know if it was the unwarranted kindness, or the sight of Potter moving about the room with such relaxed ease, as if it really was his home. But whatever it was, Draco knew he would never feel right intruding.

"Because I'm safer here," he concluded instead.

Potter was silent for a while, frowning as he apparently drew his own conclusions from Draco's words; Draco tried not to be worried. "Ok," he said finally. "Next question. Why did you just come out and say it like that?"

Draco blinked in surprise. "Really?" he dodged, "That's your question? Not why was I evicted, or how did I get through the Fidelius?"

Potter waved his hand dismissively. "They're the obvious ones. I want to know what possessed you to put your pride on the line like that."

Green eyes pinned him to the seat, and Draco sighed; leave it to Potter to ask the one question he didn't want to answer. "I used the wording of an ancient appeal," he explained. At Potter's blank look, Draco continued. "On a legal document, you have to word things a certain way to make sure there are no loopholes; it's the same with an appeal. Asking you that way, I get all the protection of this house as a direct descendent of the Black line. Otherwise I'd just be some random wizard begging a bed from the owner."

"Ok," Potter said slowly, nodding as the information sunk in. "So it's a family line thing, which is why you stated your connection through your mother. But what possible protection could a _house _offer you?"

"It's… complicated," Draco replied, avoiding the obvious answer, but at the same time careful not to lie. "No one knows entirely how or why, but it's _safer_ to have house protection. That's why the first born are more fortunate; yes, they get most of the money, but they also get the family residence. Of course, with it comes a responsibility for the well-being of all members of that line, should they request sanctuary – _noblesse oblige _and all that. It's rather double-edged: they get protection and status, but the house is never truly their own. In a way they're just the guardians."

Potter frowned, finding the flaw Draco expected. "_All _members of the line? I thought all the purebloods were related. Are you telling me that at any moment, I could have half the Wizarding World on my doorstep?"

Draco smirked. "As entertaining as that sight would be, unfortunately the answer is no, for two reasons. The first is about blood."

"Of course it is," Potter said, with some bitterness.

Draco rolled his eyes, switching into a lecture mode much like Hermione's, though he would've been horrified if he knew. "Not like that, you great idiot; you can't train magic to be prejudiced, not when there's no such thing as actual 'tainted' blood. It depends on the closeness of your ties; yes, I'm distantly related to Weasley, but I could never realistically seek sanctuary at his home. I'd have to list all the reasons why I couldn't go to closer connections, and I sincerely doubt he'd put up with me on his doorstep for more than a few seconds. Added to that, the reasons have to be both serious enough to be considered obstacles, and completely true, or it doesn't work. Not that anyone would lie, anyway; ancient appeals are only ever used as a last resort when it comes to protecting your family line."

Potter regarded him silently for a while, perhaps realising how truly vulnerable Draco was making himself. No – how truly vulnerable he _was_.

"I can respect that," he finally said quietly. He cleared his throat, continuing on with more confidence. "What about the Potter home, then? I know my father was a pureblood. Why was I never offered protection there?"

Draco shrugged apologetically. "The Potter residence has been lost for generations."

Potter frowned. "Lost? What, was it destroyed or something? Did the magic fail?"

"No, nothing so dramatic as that. I mean literally lost; nobody knows where it is. Which brings me to the second reason, actually," Draco continued. "It would be rather hard for the Wizarding World to come to you for sanctuary when they don't know where you are. On one hand, there's the Fidelius. On the other, I'd wager that few people actually realise such a modest townhouse is the official Black residence."

Potter snorted. "Modest? Have you seen the size of this place? There are _seven stories_, including the basement!"

Draco lifted an eyebrow. "Have you seen the size of the _Manor_? These _are_ the Black's we're talking about, Potter."

"… Fair enough."

Draco smirked. "I thought so."

* * *

><p>Potter allowed him a little reprieve, and Draco set gratefully to the bowl that had been placed before him. The contents were by this time cold, and his heating charm only went so far, but it was still more of a meal than he'd had in quite a long time. He still ate with all the usual Malfoy manners, but Draco was only too aware of how desperate his actions must seem when compared to his past behaviour. Still, there was nothing to do but keep eating, and pray Potter didn't ask too many awkward questions. He didn't seem inclined to, however, staring into the flames while Draco ate. He was probably pondering the situation of responsibility he'd unknowingly been left in; Draco wouldn't be surprised if he was a little pissed off.<p>

"You know, Malfoy," he said as Draco finished up, "I'm sure I'm related through my father somehow, but I'm not _actually_ a Black."

"I _do _know my own family tree, Potter," Draco said, fighting both a yawn, and to keep disdain from his voice. He was meant to be _polite_, but unsurprisingly, his manners didn't take too well to humiliation. "But the house was left to you, which makes you a caretaker of sorts. That, combined with your status as Sirius Black's ward – yes, I do know some things about my cousin – makes you official head of the family. Sir," he added, in response to Potter's surprise, sketching a mocking bow from his seat.

Potter scowled. "Prat. Alright," he added, with a tired wave of his hand, "You'd better start answering me the obvious questions."

"Right; of course," Draco replied, pushing the yawn back _again_. He wasn't sure when staying awake became a competition, but there was no way he was giving in first, even if Potter was currently miles ahead. "Well, you don't need to worry about your house losing its status as a curiosity to Muggles. The Fidelius is still in place; the Secret Keeper let me in."

"What? But _I'm_ the…. Oh." There was a long pause. "Snape?"

Draco shook his head.

"Dumbledore, then. Why didn't he-? Oh never mind, just tell me what happened," Potter said, as a greater weight seemed to settle on his shoulders. "I'm too tired to care."

Draco frowned, not sure why he was so concerned by Potter's reaction. He forced himself to shrug it off and answer the question, staring into the flames as he told his tale. "Mother was always the dutiful daughter. While Aunt Andromeda was rebelling against the family's rigid formality, and Aunt Bellatrix was holed up in the family library, it was my mother who made the weekly trip to Grimmauld Place to honour her aunt." He shrugged. "Once you know where a house is, it can be difficult to hide. One night, in the summer before fifth year, my father's…. business got a little out of hand. My mother was frightened, so she took me to her family home. Of course, by that time it was no longer visible to her, but she knew it was there. And so, we waited. Eventually Moody came out to question us. Mother insisted on seeing Sirius, said it was a matter of family, not business. Dumbledore seemed to like that, because he came out and let us in. As soon as Sirius met us in the hallway, she made an ancient appeal for the Black residence to protect my life. He made her stay as well."

There was a long silence, heavy with expectation. Draco kept his eyes fixed on the fire, refusing to meet Potter's smug expression. He didn't want to see this man's delight at his family's weakness, his pride in his godfather's morally superior actions. He didn't want to see what would _actually _be there, either.

"Why did you leave?" The question was asked softly, but still it made Draco start. He glanced up, flinching in anticipation of the pity that he was truly afraid of – but it wasn't there. Potter was watching him calmly, though there was sadness layered with so much else in his eyes. Draco realised with a wry half smile that this was probably his bedside manner – the one he used with the patients of St. Mungo's; the victims. But somehow… Draco found he didn't mind.

He contemplated saying nothing for a moment. Technically, he had given Potter all the information he needed. But the unspoken question – you weren't on our side, so why didn't you betray us? – probably deserved an answer.

"Mother decided it was safe to return," he said, matter-of-fact. "We each made an Unbreakable Vow, that we wouldn't reveal the headquarters' location to anyone. We'd stayed in our room the whole time, so we had no other information to give up. And then we went home."

Potter gaped at him, perplexed, and maybe just a little angry. "Just like that. You went home. Back to Voldemort, and danger, and a cause I _know _you didn't support."

"No," Draco denied. "We went home to my father."

* * *

><p>At Malfoy's calm admission, Harry felt all the fight leave him and he slumped back in his seat. Family; it always came down to family. As much as he wanted to shout, and curse, and deny any understanding of <em>anything <em>the other side had done – he couldn't. He understood fear, and desperation; he understood running into danger, pointing his wand and saying the words he didn't want to say, if only it meant protecting those he loved. The only difference between him and Malfoy was that Harry's family had made the right decisions; Draco's had made the wrong ones. In a way, they'd been nothing more than pawns, fighting the war their parents and elders set before them. And how could he blame Malfoy for that?

Harry was drawn out of his thoughts as Malfoy gave a massive yawn, forgetting in his exhaustion to cover his mouth. He sat there for a full fifteen seconds doing a hippo impression, and when Harry glanced at the clock, he was no longer surprised – half twelve, and who knew what Malfoy had gone through today, or the last time he'd slept. Whatever and whenever that was, an explanation was going to have to wait – he clearly needed sleep. Harry watched a moment longer, as Malfoy blinked a few times in surprise, then scowled, apparently displeased with himself. He felt a small smile tug at his lips…

"Alright," Harry said, grabbing bowls and mug and hauling himself to his feet. "You need to rest."

Malfoy stared up at him, eyes wide, mind suddenly too exhausted to keep up. Harry rolled his eyes in anything but a fond manner, and said "Yes, you can stay here tonight. I'll have Kreacher fix a room for you."

With Malfoy watching him in silence, Harry set the dishes in the sink before knocking carefully at Kreacher's door. It was opened with a half-bow and a "Yes, Master Harry?"

"Sorry to disturb you, Kreacher. I was just wondering if you could make up a room for the night." He gestured over his shoulder. "Draco's going to be staying for… Well, I don't know how long. A while."

The elf peered around him, blinking in astonishment as his eyes met Malfoy's. Kreacher pulled himself to his full height, turning back to Harry.

"Would Mister Draco be liking his previous room, Sir?" the elf asked, deliberately keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.

Harry frowned. "His previous…? Oh, right! I, um, forgot." He bit his lip, glancing at the blond. "No, better not. Just put him wherever you think is best, Kreacher. Thanks."

Kreacher nodded, then disappeared with a crack.

Malfoy watched Harry as he slowly wandered over, less than eager to admit both he and Kreacher were a little worried; people generally didn't like to hear that, and Malfoy was more volatile than 'people'. He actively avoided the searching gaze until the Slytherin cleared his throat pointedly. Harry sighed, resigned.

"I, um, told Kreacher to put you somewhere different from last time. Is that ok?" he asked, feeling awkward for the first time that night.

Malfoy nodded, stiff. "That'll be fine, Potter." He paused. "Thank you."

If the words sounded strangled, Harry certainly wasn't mentioning it. He shrugged; "I can't say anyone would do the same, but really, it's no trouble."

Silence fell as Harry chewed on his lip, wondering if he should make the suggestion. He stalled for a moment, observing Malfoy as he finally relaxed back into his seat, relief plain in his eyes. Relief, and a bit of uncertainty.

Harry decided to wait. "What happens now, for you?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think this far ahead."

Harry laughed. "I can understand that. I'm still trying to work out what to do with myself now that Voldemort's gone. Other than Hero Stuff, of course."

Malfoy glanced at him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he sighed, turning to study the flames as though they might hold the answers. "I suppose I'll head down to the Ministry tomorrow, try and unfreeze my accounts so I can get out of your hair."

Going by Malfoy's expression, he didn't seem to hold out much hope for that. He looked so lost… Harry felt his hero complex stir, and inwardly groaned, unable to believe that the last day and a half at St. Mungo's hadn't put it in its place.

He swallowed; Ron and Hermione were going to kill him… "You should stay."

Malfoy looked at him sharply. "What?"

"You should stay here. At least until after Christmas," he beseeched. "Give yourself time to figure stuff out properly. Anyway, it'd be nice for Kreacher to serve a Black again, at least for a little while."

Malfoy studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Are you offering me charity, Potter?"

Harry's breath caught. "I… Well… Yes." He raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying that you don't need it? Because that's not what you said before."

Malfoy scowled at him, and then sighed, letting his head fall back as his eyes drifted closed, defeated.

"Yeah, I do," he said quietly. "Alright, Potter, I'll stay."

Harry grinned unseen, triumphant. He was filled with a strange glow of happiness… He was probably just happy to have a permanent guest for a while, and Malfoy wasn't so bad. It might even be kind of fun.

"This is a big house," Malfoy said suddenly, sounding altogether too serious. Harry didn't like it.

"Oh really?" he teased, trying to lighten the mood. "What happened to modest?"

"It's that too," Malfoy said dismissively, unwilling to be distracted. "My point is that it shouldn't be hard for me to stay out of your way. I'll keep to my room when I'm here, and go out for meals. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you more than I already am." His eyes were still closed, but his body was tense.

"What?" Harry asked with a frown; he was confused now. "Who said anything about inconvenience?"

"I'm Draco Malfoy," Draco Malfoy pointed out. "And you're Harry Potter."

Harry Potter rolled his eyes. "Thank you for that insightful piece of information. What's your point?"

Malfoy snorted, finally meeting Harry's gaze. His eyes were swirling with repressed anger as he all but spit out the words. "Well it's certainly not _convenient _for a…" He flinched. "For a _Death Eater_ to be living with the Saviour of the wizarding world."

"Says who?" Harry nearly shouted, annoyed. "The wizarding world? Well fuck that! I didn't kill Voldemort just to have everyone else tell me how to live!"

They were glaring at each other now, no longer trying to be civil. Harry tried to hold the pose, but as a realisation struck him, his lips started to twitch. Laughter bubbled up inside him as Malfoy glared fiercely, eyes narrowing further as Harry finally collapsed, giggling.

"Sorry!" he choked out. "Sorry, it's… not… _you_, it's just… _Dear Merlin_…"

Malfoy's lips were inching into a smile as he looked on. "Dear Merlin indeed. Potter, are you always this pathetic? Or am I getting a special show?" The words should have been harsh, but there was humour lacing his tone, not spite, causing Harry to laugh all the more at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"And you thought _I _was tired," Malfoy muttered, lips stretching into a yawn at the thought.

Harry forced himself to breathe, to push the humour away long enough to explain. "Our first argument. We managed to touch on your parents, the Weasley's, your need for charity, and even Death Eaters with no problems. But—" He was cut off by another breathless giggle.

Malfoy's eyes opened wide in horror as it dawned on him. "We're fighting over you being _nice _to me!"

Harry nodded, laughing again at Malfoy's reaction.

"That is just so _wrong_!"

Harry sobered a bit at that, determined to make his point. "Not when I'm _right_." He chuckled. "And stop glaring at me! I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, you can't do that!"

Finally Malfoy laughed, and Harry smiled at the sight.

"I do what I want, Malfoy," he continued. "It's one of the perks of not giving a crap; you should try it sometime."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I'm a p_ureblood_, Potter. My entire existence is based upon 'giving a crap', as you so eloquently put it."

"Oh yeah?" Harry challenged. "And which society rule tells you to sabotage your own life out of guilt?"

Malfoy glared, not frustrated this time, but defensive and very angry.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, _Malfoy_," Harry spat. "But I was under the impression that you were trying to _protect _your family line. How's it going to help your kids if Daddy thinks he's less than human?"

"I can't believe you!" Malfoy shouted. "You're telling me how to raise kids I don't even have? Well fuck you, Potter! Hero or not, you can't tell me how to live!"

The words echoed in the room as they stared at each other, Malfoy in shock, and Harry slowly raised an eyebrow.

"I hate you," Malfoy sighed.

Harry flashed a grin before he got back to business. "Look, I'm sorry if I crossed a line, but you're being an idiot. Life's hard enough without hating yourself."

"I don't—" Malfoy cut in, but there was no conviction in his voice. "I don't hate myself."

Harry caught his eye and held it for a long moment, hoping to convey the full depth of his words. "I know." _I understand._

Malfoy studied him suspiciously, and he pressed on. "I could do with the company, and I dare say you could too. We managed not to kill each other tonight! At least let's give it a try."

Malfoy hesitated – and then nodded; Harry went back to biting his lip. If he could get Malfoy to agree to this, maybe he could—

_Crack_.

"The room is ready now, Sir. Mister Draco has been placed in the serpent room."

Harry frowned. The serpent room? But… that was the master bedroom. Well, Malfoy was half Black, he supposed, and used to grandeur. Perhaps he'd feel more at home there.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he said with a smile. The house elf bowed low, first to him, and then to Malfoy, and disappeared into his cupboard.

Malfoy turned to him slowly, brow raised. "He's certainly changed his tune."

Harry shrugged. "We're… kind of family, now. As totally creepy as that sounds aloud."

Now both eyebrows shot to the ceiling. "Potter," Malfoy deadpanned. "You do realise that Kreacher is a house elf."

Harry smirked. "What can I say? I'm an inspiration to all. Befriending house elves, taking in—" He paused, smile faltering as he debated diplomacy. Ah screw it; if Malfoy could say it, so could he. They'd have to deal with the topic sooner or later. "Death Eaters."

Malfoy's lips stretched into a forced smile. "Plural, Potter? Who else have you got hiding here?"

Harry's eyes twinkled with mischief. "You'll have to wait and see." He nudged Malfoy's outstretched legs with a toe. "Come on, I'll show you your room."

* * *

><p>Malfoy followed him up the stairs, Harry pointing out the various rooms: dining on the ground floor – never really used; drawing room on the first floor, along with Ginny and Neville's usual guest room. Harry was on the second floor, in his and Ron's old bedroom; Ron and Hermione had claimed the room next door, and Luna sometimes stayed in the smaller room at the end of the corridor. Malfoy's face was a careful blank as Harry pointed out each 'guest' room, and he began to realise the wisdom in housing Malfoy out of the general bustle. After all, there wasn't much point telling his friends the Slytherin was living here, not if he'd be gone in a few weeks…. What Harry still didn't understand, however, was why Kreacher hadn't just put Malfoy in the real guest room. Surely he wasn't going back to his worship of the Blacks, and all things pureblood. He was feeding Muggles for Merlin's sake! Homeless Muggles! Surely he was past all that.<p>

On the third floor, Harry paused, pointing up the next flight of steps. "Sirius's room is up there, along with Regulus, and then a ladder takes you to the attic."

Malfoy watched him a little too closely. "You have an awful lot of housemates for someone who could 'do with company'."

Harry ignored the statement, setting off down the corridor. "This was Fred and George's room in the Order days, though now it's just George of course, and further down here is—"

"This was where we stayed, Mother and me." Malfoy stopped beside the door to the guest room, which had once house Molly and Arthur. His hand reached out to rest on the door-handle, but he didn't go in.

Harry watched the memories play out on his face, finally realising that with a house full of ghosts, the master bedroom was really the only option. He gestured down the hall at the vast, imposing doors – the only ones in the house still fitted out with serpent door-handles. "Well you're in here now."

Malfoy pulled himself away as Harry moved to stand before them, taking a deep breath – wondering why this suddenly felt momentous – and pushing them open.

A month or so ago, Harry and his friends had decided to restore the room to some kind of liveable state. The sheer abundance and quality of furniture in the attic (that was when Harry had brought down his Roussillon, along with some other odds and ends) had inspired them to such a degree that they all got a little carried away. The overall atmosphere was of restrained opulence, something hinting that with the right occupants, the room would radiate power. The large space was dominated once more by a massive bed of dark wood, Harry didn't know what kind. It had a simple but elegant silver quilt set with dark cotton sheets, and was flanked by dainty matching tables, each with a shallow draw at the top; a single candelabrum was their only adornment. To the left of the bed were a huge wardrobe and chest of drawers, with a cast-iron standing mirror between the two. To the right was a small fireplace – it was the only bedroom to have one – and what was apparently meant to pass as a couch, though Harry thought Hermione's term of 'loveseat' more appropriate. It was of Victorian design, upholstered in rich red velvet that captured the imagination. A closed door led to an ensuite bathroom which Malfoy would probably call modest, though Harry would not. Every handle in the room, on cupboards and doors – even the fire pokers – was shaped like a serpent.  
>Harry noticed that Kreacher had removed the solid silver jewellery box and brush that had earlier graced the dresser, leaving a pile of thick black towels in their place. It also looked like he'd given the place a thorough dusting, and remade the bed; wood was even stacked high beside the fireplace. Harry didn't doubt that every tile in the bathroom would be glistening. He grinned; maybe Kreacher <em>had <em>missed the Black's. No one would have been able to guess that a Hippogriff had once lived there – even the lingering smell had finally gone. Remembering Malfoy's yawn, Harry bit back a laugh – now it would just be a hippo.

"Here you are," he said, turning finally to gauge Malfoy's reaction. "Acceptable?"

Malfoy's gaze, which had been wandering about the room appreciatively, jumped to Harry's. "Perfectly," he replied with a smile.

Harry grinned. "Right," he said, watching as Malfoy's face was split by another huge yawn. "You need sleep. Bathroom's through there, obviously, I'm just downstairs, and you can call Kreacher if you need."

"Thank you, Potter," Malfoy said, finally moving into the room. He took a small item from his pocket, placing it at the foot of the bed. Pulling out his wand – Harry was surprised to realise it was the first time he'd done so all night – he enlarged it into a sturdy wooden trunk that matched the décor surprisingly well.

Harry, knowing he was unnecessary but unwilling to leave, continued to ramble. "I'll be out most of the day tomorrow – well, today – not at St. Mungo's, just helping out with some of the construction."

Malfoy smirked over his shoulder as he directed the flight of several shirts into his wardrobe. "So Thursday's Hero Stuff is building?"

Harry simply stared for a moment, watching more clothes and other belongings fly about the room, wondering where this confident creature had come from, and what he had done with the unsure, withdrawn Malfoy of five minutes ago. It seemed the room suited him; he was in his element. In fact, he was _almost _glowing…

Malfoy threw a concerned glance over his shoulder. "Potter? You still with us?"

"Huh?" Harry blinked as the words filtered through his daze. "Oh, yes. Um. I'll be out of the house by the time you're up. Well, I might be, I suppose it depends on when you get up. But you seemed pretty exhausted, I thought you might sleep in, in which case—" Harry shook himself. "I'll be gone by eight thirty," he finished definitively. "Maybe. Probably nine."

"Alright, Potter. Now get some sleep, before you forget how to navigate the stairs." He turned his back, effectively dismissing Harry. Still, he lingered; it was now or never.

"Hey, Malfoy?"

The blond finally stopped moving, setting his wand on the bed before turning around with some trepidation. "Yes?"

"I think- You should call me Harry. If you want."

Malfoy didn't move, eyes becoming unfocused as he considered. He nodded calmly. "Then you should call me Draco."

Harry blinked. Really? It was as easy as that? He nodded slowly in response "Ok. I can do that."

He turned to leave; turned back. "Hey, Draco?"

The blond raised an eyebrow.

"Dragon," he smirked. "Suits you."

Draco grinned. "Get some sleep, Harry."


End file.
